Disclaimer: The X-Men characters,
and all other recognizable characters are copyright to Marvel
Entertainment Group. This work of FanFiction is not meant
to infringe on that copyright or defame Marvel Comics or the
X-Men and related characters in any way.
Copyright: No copying, distributing or editing of this
material is permitted without the express permission of the
creator, K-Nice, under United States copyright law. Life isn't
worth living if you live it from intensive care.
Notes: It's a Elseworld: the characters that get together
in this fic are together because they exist in this world
and does not idicate who I think should get it on in canon.
Also, This story is majorly and beyond
all excuses graphic in some places. I would not read this
story myself if it hadn't sprung nearly whole and irritating
from my brow one night. ***Please do not read this if violence
and rape offend you, which they should.*** I'm
a fan of shows like Law & Order and Homicide so they have
influenced this tale. While I have read Raven
Adams' fic, this is in no way a rip-off of her story,
my inspiration came from a completely different direction.
Another thing, I don't have it in for Jean or Xavier, but
in the police world, profilers don't get that much respect.
© K-Nice 2000
Blood and Bone
One hand on the gear shaft, the other on the door handle,
Detective Lebeau came to a jarring stop inches from the cruiser
in front of his late-model Lexus. He had an ex-girlfriend
with Vice connections that was still nostalgic enough over
their ill-fated romance to tip him on hot police auctions.
He still had the sneaking suspicion that he should have Logan
go over it with his K-9's to be certain she hadn't put a brick
of coke in the upholstery for the next time he went through
a road stop. It was the kind of goodbye present she would
enjoy more than him.
"We'll probably need gloves, Rem." The smooth tones of his
homicide partner sent him back into the glove compartment
for a handful of latex. Ororo Munroe stepped away from the
car as she affixed her badge to her light gray coat with a
metal pin. Munroe insisted on wearing whites and creams to
even the grimiest crime scenes. Lebeau always protested, but
looking at her in the flashing red and blue lights, he knew
it suited her. She always seemed to walk away as pristine
as she came in.
"Allyoop, Ro." Tossing her a pair, Remy tucked his own in
his coat pockets. His long fingers were already encased in
black leather, but if he had to move any evidence, he would
rather switch to latex then ruin his cowhides.
"I thought this was supposed to be low profile. Why all the
blue and whites?" Detective Munroe's cinnamon brow wrinkled
as she counted 8 patrol cars and twice as many officers. They
were the first plainclothes in attendance, but already the
place was crawling with cops, which meant the scene was probably
trampled beyond usefulness. Sighing, she angled around a witness
interview that smelled like a brewery and approached the alley
that was drawing so much attention.
"Detectives, finally, we can get some order around here."
The man looked genuinely relieved. He seemed to be the senior
officer on site and the sweat beading on his dark forehead
intimated how distressed he was by that position. Running
a hand over his short black hair, he pointed down the alley
where the street lights failed to reach. "She's back there.
Hope you two didn't have a big dinner."
"Thank you, Officer Bishop. Has the ME's office been notified?
Good, send them in ASAP." Ororo's words were more comfort
than instruction. The densest of farm-boys could have figured
out the same, but it allowed Bishop to take orders instead
to give them, obviously something he was more comfortable
Remy was already halfway down the alley when Ororo starting
picking her way through the filth to their objective. Grabbing
her flashlight from the inside pocket of her duster, Detective
Munroe kept the beam near her feet. Her partner's uncanny
night vision was the stuff of department legend, but she took
it in stride, protecting his sensitive black-brown eyes by
rote. It also allowed her to focus right in front of her.
There might be details that survived the other policemen's
boots and this would be their last chance to catch those bits
of evidence before the real circus began. Disappointed but
not surprised, Ororo lifted the beam from the ground to pan
over the scene.
Standing on the other side of the corpse, Detective Lebeau
tapped a cigarette against his gloved palm. He wouldn't light
it and litter the scene with ashes, not when forensics might
still pull some Holmes like miracle out of their aluminum
briefcases. "She hasn't been moved?"
"No sir. She's just like were found her. Is she another one?"
Bishop's partner was eager and green, both around the gills
and in experience.
Eyes gone hard, Lebeau stared at the rookie with enough malice
to silence his excited chattering. "Another one of what, Officer
"The ... uh ... serial killer. Is she one of his?"
Remy and Ororo exchanged a look. The serial murder of prostitutes
was not a new phenomenon for New York City but this case took
the cake. There were orders from Commissioner Fury himself
to keep the whole thing under wraps until the perp had been
nailed. The Carpenter, so called for his penchant for Christ-like
arrangement of his victims, was a need-to-know case and according
to their immediate superior, even other police departments
weren't to be included in the loop. On one hand, they cursed
the fact that their secret might be out; on the other, they
would never have seen the body so soon if Jepheth hadn't put
in a direct call to homicide.
Unable to come to a conclusion, the pair ignored the street
cop and moved to examine the body. Letting his eyes adjust
as his partner scanned the body, Remy finally glanced down
as the beam illuminated the shoes that sat a few inches from
the bare feet of the victim. They were stilettos, the heels
worn to the metal from too much walking. The toes were painted
a garish orange, unattractive in any light and more-so against
such pale skin. The feet had been covered by hose, but the
nylon was so shredded with runs that they served no real purpose.
Oddly, the calves were muscular, the light catching ripples
that continued up to the thighs, which were a creamy-white
where they weren't stained burgundy with congealing blood.
Remy made his eyes jump over her brutalized pubic area and
focus on the skirt bunched around her waist. The 'leather,'
so cheap it probably squeaked, was slashed in a pattern that
continued on the flesh of her torso. Her blouse, a green suede
vest, was ribboned against her stiffening skin. Lebeau snorted
at the small cross nestled between her bared breast. It had
not served to protect her, in life nor death.
Looking away as the light glanced over her bludgeoned face,
Remy switched his gloves and reached for the Carpenter's signature.
A wooden spike driven through each palm. Silently, he examined
the mutilation, daring himself to find the inscribed numbers
before his partner. Ororo preferred to bend over rather than
crouch, so Remy had the advantage and found the scripture
first. "Sixty-six thousand one hundred seventy-five. Joshua
is too short so it must be Revelation 17:5."
"And here I thought I had reformed you from Catholicism."
Ororo smiled ruefully. Remy claimed to have eschewed religion,
but she for one was grateful for whatever nun had tormented
him through his Catechism. It was surely coming in handy on
"One trip to a healer for a wicked flu does not a convert
make, 'Ro. Besides, it's not like I know what it means. I'm
just lucky to have remembered there were 66 canonical books.
Don't look at me that way!" Something was tickling his brain,
but Detective Lebeau was distracted from attending to it when
a flashlight beam caught him square in the face. "Who the
heck are you and who let you down here?"
"Peter Parker, Daily Bugle." The man was eager, waving
his press pass like it was the golden ticket. "Maybe I could
ask you two intelligent looking officers a few questions about
the epidemic of dead hookers that seems to be plaguing New
York? I mean, 20 dead in 3 months, that's seems like a lot
don't you think?" Darting his hand to his camera, he tried
to keep them distracted long enough for a few choice shots.
Nonplused, Munroe placed herself firmly between the reporter
and corpse. "You won't find your Pulitzer here. Twenty dead
in 3 months can not even be considered a rash much less an
epidemic. These poor girls are dropping like flies. Drugs,
AIDS, violence -- choose one or all and you have your story."
Lebeau was at her side, and between the two of them, the
shorter man didn't have a view of anything worth his film.
"Take your notebook and your camera and go home." Ororo turned
her back and listened for his retreating footsteps. They were
both engrossed in the corpse when Parker found his perch,
crawling out an apartment window and onto the fire escape.
He couldn't do much, not without his flashbulb alerting his
unknowing hosts below.
Another set of footsteps echoed down the alley. The sense
of deja vu set Remy to rolling his eyes. "And you are?"
A lightening quick badge flash and "A.M.E. Reyes" with attitude
to spare still didn't satisfy him. Ororo rose to her feet
and held out a hand to neutralize the situation but her partner
wasn't going to let it go. He picked the oddest times to get
"African Methodist Episcopalian? " He quirked an odd smile
"Assistant Medical Examiner, smartie." She was already snapping
on her gloves.
"Assistant Medical Examiner, huh? And here I thought
we were getting the real McCoy. " Remy stood just so he could
tower over the Latina. Their combined height had worked on
Parker, so he gave it another shot.
"McCoy's hip deep in jumpers. Seems there was this gang of
them up on Hunt's Point playing lemming. Anyway, you got me
and I'm better than you think so why don't you go hunt down
a lead or two and I'll pamper our new friend." Already the
camera was flashing with an ease and confidence that bespoke
competence. No one noticed that some of the flashes came from
Both detectives were walking away before they had consciously
decided to leave, a testimony to Reyes' brisk manner. A few
long strides out to the street lights and the tickling in
LeBeau's skull settled back for a long night.
A tap on a nearby desk roused both detectives from their
computers. "So?" Crossing his arms and leaning on nothing,
Lieutenant Summers tried to stare his too most enigmatic charges
into submission. Since Munroe wasn't intimidated by anything
and Lebeau thrived on challenging authority figures, he had
to settle for a slight chair shift and an upward glance.
"It's him again. Apparently he's through with Mary Magdelene."
Indicating the open King James teetering atop a stack of open
files, Remy went back to entering the victims vitals from
the ME's report into the database query.
"Have you sent this to the profiler?" Both officers fought
to keep their eye averted. Summers made it clear that there
was no nepotism in his department. His wife just happened
to be the best criminal profiler on the East Coast, no questions
asked. He had a knack for keeping the business face securely
in place when necessary and this case demanded nothing less
then professionalism, something he expected his detectives
"Not yet. We thought it could wait until morning." Ororo
was deeply into a fingerprint search that was consistently
giving her error messages. Distracted, she didn't even feel
Remy kick her feet under the joined part of their desks.
"I think its clear that this is a sign of an escalation.
The profiler assured us that when he ran out of Magdelene
verses, he would quit." There was a hint of embarrassment
and annoyance in his tone. Jean Grey-Summers rarely made mistakes.
Why did it have to be with this case? He could already see
the mess the Bugle and the Post would make when they found
out he used his own wife as the case profiler and she was
"Maybe he's gotten a taste for killing." Lebeau tucked a
cigarette between his lips and rocked back in his chair. The
computer was plowing through the Violent Crime Analysis Program
database, comparing the new corpse to older ones.
"Maybe it's the Millennium. It's really bringing out the
nuts." Raven Darkholme sauntered in, as if the department
head of Sex Crimes made regular visits to Homicide. Which
"Hey Rave, you still owe me dinner and movie." Remy grinned,
not noticing Ororo's suddenly straight spine.
"Remind me never to bet on the Islanders in the office pool.
Hey Summers, how come I don't know there's a perp targeting
hookers until a rookie cop calls my department by accident?"
Raven placed one hand on her hip, consciously exposing her
service revolver from it's hiding spot beneath her dark suit
jacket. Jovial one minute, accusing the next, Darkholme was
known to change moods like a chameleon changed colors.
"Sorry Rave, that's not my choice. I had orders from the
nosebleed section. And I don't mean the cheap seats." Summers
arms drifted to his hips, ready for the face-off.
"What's the matter? Did little brother Alex from the mayor's
office get all over you about security leaks again? " Raven
pretended to pout sympathetically. Remy and Ororo buried their
heads in their screen savers, trying to remain as unobtrusive
as possible. Battles between Darkholme and Summers got fierce
Summers wasn't going to let her run roughshod over his emotions
this time. He was in the right and that was all he needed.
"No, Fury laid down the law. No one knows anymore than you
do, except me, the detectives here and a few other key players."
Including the woman putting his children to bed at that very
"I'm not key? The guys icing hookers, and hookers are my
bread and butter but I'm not key! I know, I know, "Fury's
orders." Fine, I'll talk to the top dog if I have to, but
I'm not gonna watch people die over a little bureaucracy."
Even a hard-case like Darkholme couldn't work with street-walkers
for long before their sad stories got under her skin. The
"my" was unspoken but Darkholme was as proprietary as a pimp.
A swift turn on her heels and Raven was gone, leaving tense
silence in her wake.
"She's right you know. We're cutting of our right arm by
not having some Vicers on board." Still typing, Ororo spoke
carefully to ease the violence that seemed to simmer in the
air. "They might know some possible perps--"
"We've been over that. This guys no john. Look at this: "the
mother of all harlots." This freak is on some kind of religious
crusade. You've seen the bodies, the mutilations. He doesn
't have sex with the victims, he sodomizes and slashes them."
Remy and Ororo flinched in tandem. One girl had been pregnant,
her budding uterus found shredded and slippery beside her
body. "We've got a pack of dead prostitutes and all indications
point to more. You two better get your butts in gear before
this whole thing blows up in our faces." He mimicked Darkholme's
exit in the opposite direction, his office door ringing with
"On that note, I'll be calling it a night. This stupid machine
is starting to irritate me." Munroe logged out without reading
the last error message.
[Subject is not in Criminal Records. Please enter Officer
Records pass code.]
Once again, they had a very convincing discussion via cell
phone as to why they shouldn't be sleeping together, which
lead to the ingenious solution of not sleeping at all. Remy
lay awake in her bed while Ororo nursed a cup of herbal tea
at her kitchen table. They had never been more than friends
before, but this case and silence that surrounded it had left
them nowhere to go but each other's arms.
Remy turned to rub his hand over her vacant pillow, pulling
away a single strand of white hair. He was fascinated by it,
a curiosity that had prompted their first encounter. She kept
it at shoulder length, but it was still startling to see someone
which such rich skin have such light hair. Staring at the
strand, the tickling became an itch, then a burn.
White and red.
White and red on a single head.
He had played with strains of white hair before. His ex-girlfriend
from Sex Crimes, Rebecca McKenna, nicknamed Rogue for the
numerous times she broke orders for the sake of her innate
sense of justice. They had the same drive for their work,
the same dedication to duty, but their interests were too
different for it to last very long. He could remember the
long nights with her head on his chest, stroking the fine
white hairs that sprouted front and center, like a skunk-stripe
in her auburn hair. He had convinced her to grow her hair
out long from the pageboy she preferred for the sheer pleasure
of touching it. She claimed her hair had turned white the
day her first boyfriend took her out into the Mississippi
woods to teach her a "new game."
He chuckled softly. That was the best part of their time
together, comparing stories of their southern upbringing,
lamenting whatever lapse in logic had brought them north to
the Yankee capital of the world. They went to the Bronx to
root for the Braves, hunted down every collard greens and
fried chicken joint in the five boroughs. He supposed they
had confused that connection, that sense of comfort, with
love. Toward the end, they had stopped talking about anything
except the South. And that was before the Carpenter had begun
to dominant his case load
While Rebecca had the strength to handle dealing with child
molesters and rapist day in and day out, Remy firmly believed
they should all be taken down to Central and have the backs
of their heads aerated by .38 rounds. She had stopped telling
him about her day at work when he vomited in her kitchen sink
after a particularly sick child abuse tale. He couldn't stomach
the idea of anyone, especially not a child, suffering that
way. On the other hand, while he found corpses intriguing
and the stories they told exhilarating, she was traumatized
by the sight of a dead cat in the alley beneath his loft.
He had taken to changing his clothes before he picked her
up because she claimed he smelled like death.
Their passion for their work finally eclipsed their passion
for each other and they had ended without an overabundance
of tears or throw objects. Rebecca had cut her hair again
the very next week, but his sources claimed that had to do
with a case and nothing more. They had called it quits over
Thanksgiving but Remy still sent her a Christmas present.
He couldn't take lingerie back to the store and he had no
one else at the time to give it to. She accepted the gift
and then called her tip on the auction a belated thank you
note. His sources (a.k.a. Raven after a night at the pub)
said she was hot and heavy with an German metallurgist at
His musings did little to calm the slow burn at the edge
of his brain, but Ororo's return did wake him out of his reverie.
She wore a short white robe that left her long legs exposed.
She still held the cup of tea but she did not seem very interested
in it. "Do you remember the spikes?"
He remembered every single pair. "Yeah, what about 'em?"
Tentatively, as she were still discovering something, Ororo
continued, "They weren't like the others. The numbers were
rough, hurried. Usually he takes great pride in the craftsmanship,
these last ones were of a cheaper wood quality and it looked
like he cut them down with a duller knife." She stood there,
shimmering, swaying as the thought spun through her mind and
out her mouth. Remy loved watching her work. "There were wooden
crates in the alley, trash, but a few of them were torn apart.
Figured one of our guys tampered with them for some reason,
but now ..." She gained momentum, nearly buzzing as things
clicked into place. She paused. "I don't think he planned
this one at all."
"What?! According to our profile, he's control obsessed.
These are not crimes of passion, he's not a raving lunatic
in the traditional sense. He likes the planning stage as much
as the killing. It wouldn't make sense." He played devil's
advocate even as his mind tried to catch up with hers.
"He didn't even have spikes made. He must have made them
after the fact." The thought was as grisly as their perp whittling
away at death momentos in his spare time. Still, electric
fire burned in Ororo's crystal-blue eyes and Remy knew she'd
probably made the right leap. "I think maybe the profiler
"What, this was an accident? He didn't mean to kill this
one?" Raw skepticism dragged Remy into a sitting position,
his muscular shoulders rolling with gymnastic precision.
Hunger flamed Detective Munroe's body but she was already
on the case, already in her mental zone, the one that let
her deal with madness and death and stay sane and alive. "Not
an accident, but impulsive. He didn't stalk her, didn't choose
her, I think she was thrust upon him." She placed the cup
on her dressing table and went to her closet, running her
hands over the day's choices.
Remy glanced at the clock and slid out of bed. In his opinion,
4:45 am wasn't that late, but it was certainly early. Grabbing
boxers from the floor, he slipped on his pants and coat and
let himself out.
"I think we should contact Dr. Summers about motive. Maybe
you could go by there before she leaves for the... "Turning
finally with her suit and blouse in hand, Ororo was embarrassed
to find she had been talking to herself. Laying her suit on
the unmade bed, she went into the kitchen and set up the iron
for her silk blouse. She noticed Remy's white shirt in the
living room and relaxed. A noise at the front door brought
her hand to the gun holster she didn't have on yet.
"Heh, 'Ro. Sorry about that, just ran down to my car." Remy
lifted the duffel bag he held in one hand and use it to indicate
the suit bag in the other.
"You keep a full change of clothes in your car." Part question,
part statement, her disconcertion was betrayed by the suspicious
cant of her eyes. She didn't appreciate him making such assumptions
about their relationship, such as it was.
"M'Daddy always told me to be prepared for anything." Remy
grinned cheekily until Ororo had to smile in return.
"Well, leave me some hot water." Ororo followed him into
the bedroom, straighten up as she went. She made the bed as
she listened to him sing off-key in the shower. When he finally
came out, freshly shaved and smelling of her coconut shampoo,
Ororo adjusted the leaves of her spider plant and returned
to the kitchen. She was running a warm iron over her blouse
when he came out tying his tie.
"Any reason why you rushing me, chere?" He only spoke his
Cajun French when irritated and Remy knew he had no reason
to be irritated. He had given women even shorter toss-outs
on occasion, but that was back in Academy days when he had
room inspection at 6 am sharp.
"Forge is stopping by for coffee." Ororo didn't look up to
watch his troubled pause. She had missed a week of work when
Forge had broken up with her. She considered it her own fault
in a way. She'd chosen to mentor a rookie, Katherine Pryde,
shortly after she had agreed to marry Forge. Unfortunately,
she brought her intensity to her mentoring just like any other
task. Kitty came to the movies with them, or out to dinner,
then Kitty stopped by in the morning to have breakfast, until
one morning Ororo dropped in and it was Kitty at Forge's sink
washing up the dinner dishes. She should have known better
then to bring two tech-heads into such close proximity.
"Vraiment. May I ask why?" With his arms crossed at his chest
and his feet spread apart, he looked severely put-upon.
"He might be able to tell me what's wrong with the computer."
At his blank look she continued, "The fingerprint analysis
keeps giving an error message."
"Oh, den I hope he can tell you what you want to hear. I'm
'a try and catch Cassidy in forensics afore she calls it a
night." Grabbing his suit bag and duffel, Remy turned heel
and slipped out the door before Ororo could say goodbye.
Continued in Chapter
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